Field Notes: Graham Platner & Shenna Bellows Rally

5/31/26
Graham Platner & Shenna Bellows Rally
Deering Oaks, Portland, Maine.

I was operating on home turf.

Deering Oaks is trying very hard to remain neutral. Ducks glide across the pond, a jogger sprints in the distance, unaware of the political shift about to occur.

I step into the perimeter. Staff clocks me immediately. A staffer shakes my hand, absent enthusiasm.

In the distance, the Platner team congregates. Yellow safety jackets moving in synchronicity. Heads leaning inward. Radios clipped to chests. Every few seconds, someone’s eyes break from the circle.

Familiar faces like Portland’s DA Jacqueline Sartoris are in attendance.

Attendees are looking over their shoulders as if expecting another scandal to emerge from the tree line.

And then I see her.

Is that…

…no, it can’t be.

Is that…

…Dunn?

Hard to tell at first. Something about the posture, the movement. And the COVID mask. Always the mask.

She’s looking at me now. Picks up her walkie. Immediate alert. An invisible chain reaction begins. Heads turn. A volunteer touches an earpiece.

I can see Bellows making small talk in the distance. Pink jacket. Working the crowd.

Part of me is surprised Bellows hadn’t canceled, or attempted to separate herself from the Platner campaign altogether. Given the mounting allegations—

It was becoming worse than an accidental tattoo with the boys. Worse than porta-potty self-gratification.

The crowd is still rolling in. Unimpressive compared to the last Platner rally with Bernie Sanders and Troy Jackson supporting.

Jon Fetherston is already inside the motion of the crowd.

“Not nearly as many people as the last event,” Jon says.

While legacy media is using high-grade reporting equipment, we film a quick rally update using our phones.

“Low attendance due to recent allegations,” Jon says, looking into the iPhone.

Soon after the update, a rally attendee in her 60s stops in front of Jon.

Looks him up and down with visible suspicion.

And then proceeds to take a photo of him, perhaps to alert others. She then calmly walks away, disappearing into a fog of campaign signs.

“What was that?!” Jon says.

Then Shenna Bellows steps onto the stage.

“I’m running to stand up to Donald Trump.”

The words echo through the sound system. The jogger across the pond remains politically undecided.

As the speech continues, Jon scans for Platner.

“Where do you think he is?”

“Maybe he’s in there.”

I point to a white SUV sitting beside the stage. Not parked so much as positioned.

Engine off. Windows tinted. Possibly a political getaway vehicle.

“Can you see anything?”

I lift my camera and zoom through the lens.

Tinted windows.

Nothing.

Campaign staff move around us in quick circuits, speaking into radios, pretending not to listen—while tracking everything Jon and I are doing.

We begin walking toward the car.

The formation around us tightens as we move.

The closer we get, the more materialize from nowhere.

Like someone kicked over a nesting ground of volunteers and released them all at once.

I turn around—a volunteer.

I look left—another one.

The car seems empty.

We circle behind the pavilion, followed by a trail of volunteers.

And then—there he is.

Platner.

Hidden inside a cluster of bodies. Eyes locked toward the stage. Intently listening to Bellows, ignoring the hovering press. One oyster-farming arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulders.

Our hope: to ask Platner questions surrounding recent allegations.

We move toward a barricade of volunteers acting as soft security, ready to sacrifice themselves for the dream of communism.

The ring tightens around Platner.

Platner is called to the stage.

The posse begins to move. He’s somewhere in the horde, non-visible now, his location implied only by the orbit of bodies circling him.

No opening to ask questions.

Jon positions himself toward the front row.

Melissa Dunn stands directly in front of Jon.

A human barricade.

Platner takes the stage:

“All of us here pointing fingers left and right, so we never point fingers in the direction that matters, and that is up!”

A faint applause follows.

After a short speech, he leaves the stage. The staff closes in.

Platner is not taking questions.

The horde begins moving toward a getaway car parked on the road. A strange organism of campaign staff, volunteers, reporters, activists, and curious bystanders all moving as one nervous mass.

The protective ring tightens around Platner.

Fight the Oligarchy T-shirts multiplying.

Every available supporter suddenly recruited into the evacuation effort.

“EXCUSE ME!”

A reporter yells.

Chaos ensues.

“WHY DID YOU BRING YOUR WIFE?”

Another voice cuts through.

The movement accelerates.

Platner breaks into a sprint toward the car.

A volunteer bumps into me. My camera jolts.

A man in a teddy bear onesie cuts in front of Jon.

Staff push him aside without slowing.

Platner reaches the car.

Dives into the back seat.

Jon’s attempts to question Platner are answered by a slamming car door.

The car pulls away.

The crowd thins.

Jon and I both stand in the park, watching the car swerve into the city, the rumble of the exhaust fading.

Processing for a moment.

Waiting for the adrenaline to come down.

–Neil Harper